Interlopers
by hell-whim
Summary: It's just friendly concern—making sure neither of them screw this up. Written for Royai week.


**Summary:** It's just friendly concern—making sure neither of them screw this up.

**Notes:** Written for Royai week.

**Interlopers**

When Breda sees them slip away from the party, a silent signal goes through the crowd, and Fuery is set the task of rounding everyone up. The major-general refuses to act as look-out, but when questioned, she makes a vague suggestion that the pond out back is both lacking in witnesses and easily viewed from an empty upstairs bedroom. Ed and Jean waste ten precious minutes arguing about whose lip-reading interpretation is more accurate, until Winry points out that they could probably just open the window and hear everything fine.

They are disappointed, at first: Mustang and Hawkeye seem to be enjoying the simple pleasure of each other's company in silence. Her hand rests in the bend of his elbow, and his posture belies dependence—he leans into her, weight shifted on one foot and smiling in that gentle way he seems to reserve only for her.

"I'm so glad that mustache is gone," Al whispers, and they all nod.

"Positively atrocious," Armstrong grumbles, petting his own glorious facial hair in apology.

"Hawkeye looks great," Jean says. "You responsible, Rebecca?"

"Only for paying. It was Winry's idea to go out and get dolled up."

"I think plum's a perfect color for her," Winry sighs dreamily. "And look how he dressed to match."

"_Our_ effort," Ed cuts in, smug enough to earn a swat from Winry. "He cleans up okay."

"'Cause _you're_ one to talk," Al mutters, but Breda shushes them. Down below, Mustang and Hawkeye make eye contact, smile, and then both look away, laughing quietly.

"I hate these parties," Mustang says.

"Really? You _hate_ the opportunity to glad-hand your way up the ranks?"

They're both holding wineglasses in their unlinked hands, and Mustang raises his in salute.

"Sit through two more hours of awful jokes, and I'll make general."

"Don't go climbing too fast," Hawkeye says, and there is something so soft about her face in the warm glow of flickering candles and moonlight. "The major-general's already suspicious enough."

"How do you like her, so far?"

"She's...efficient."

Falman can't suppress a snort of agreement.

"Is that a slight against my managerial style?"

"_What_ style?" Hawkeye challenges, brow raised.

"I'm wounded, Captain."

"You'll survive it."

Mustang laughs.

"_Why_ is he still using her rank?" Rebecca moans. "That's not romantic at all."

"For them, it is," Fuery replies. "It's respect."

"It's _distancing_," Jean says. "It's their safety-net."

Hawkeye suddenly snaps forward, pressing her lips to Mustang's, and he pulls her in, as they abandon the wineglasses to the grass. Unable to contain her excitement, Winry swats Ed a few more times.

"But I've missed having you in my line-of-sight," Hawkeye says, when they break for air. His arms circle her waist, mirrored by her arms looped around his neck. "I heard a rumor I don't like."

"Ishval? Nothing's set in stone just yet. Führer still needs some convincing."

Hawkeye smiles softly.

"He wants us to be married in the spring."

Mustang laughs again, shaking his head.

"He's wanted that since 1912."

She leans back, fingers walking up his arm.

"You have something against spring?"

"Not particularly. Seems a little far off, though."

"You had something else in mind?"

His back is facing the house, and they can see his hand slip into a pocket. He pulls out something small and glittery.

"Oh my _god_," Rebecca breathes, and Winry is reduced to squeaking.

"Is he? He's not. Oh my god—he _is_."

"I did, in fact," Mustang says softly, and as he drops to one knee, Winry's hands tighten painfully on Ed's upper arm. "Riza, I—"

She smiles, her left hand wrapped up in both of his, happy to wait out his hesitation.

"You know what I'm going to say," he laughs. "You _always_ know—usually before I know it myself."

"Doesn't mean I don't like to hear it," Hawkeye prompts gently.

"Winry," Ed hisses, prying her nails loose. "You're drawing blood."

"Well, then I guess I have a question for you," Mustang chuckles. "Riza, will you marry me?"

There is only a collective intake of breath—no one would dare speak and miss her answer. At least for the first minute.

"Oh god, why isn't she saying anything?" Rebecca hisses.

"She can't say _no_," Fuery whispers, hesitant. "Can she?"

"_Would_ she?"

"Fraternization regulations make it very clear what types of subordinate-superior relationships are prohibited," Falman says. "Their present military relationship wouldn't be an impediment."

"Roy," Riza says, and there is another collective inhale of hope. Her smile widens a bit. "When do you think they'll realize we can hear them?"

Crickets. A chorus of them rises up from the quiet garden below the window.

"Like how we've been able to hear them since before they even opened the window?"

"Or that we saw them following us outside?"

They are collectively frozen in discovery. Half-turned, Mustang and Hawkeye smirk up at the window, her hand still resting in his, waiting patiently for response. Ed recovers first.

"Well?" he demands, leaning out the window. "Are you gonna marry him or not?"

"Of course I am," Hawkeye shouts back, and Mustang turns to her.

"Really?" he says.

"Yes," she confirms, smiling. "Yes, I will marry you."

He rises and envelopes her in a kiss more passionate than the one they'd earlier witnessed—though half of them miss this second kiss in the mad scramble for the door and the stairs.

They spill out to the garden in a chaotic mass of congratulations and laughter and Armstrong's obnoxiously joyous tears, swarming Hawkeye and Mustang. Rebecca examines the ring with the severity of a master jeweler—Havoc and Breda congratulate Mustang with the required force. Al intercepts Armstrong's hug with resignation.

"Spring is _way_ too far off," Winry says. "The chapel in Resembool's more than big enough—and it's never busy. Could probably have the whole thing settled by next weekend."

But Rebecca interjects.

"No, they should get married in Central—Grumman traveling will just freeze the rail-lines, and you don't want to be a big fuss."

"Actually—" Riza begins.

"We're required to report back to Briggs by the tenth," Falman says, "and the major-general is unlikely to agree to an extension of leave."

"Captain won't stay in service after she's married—nobody does," Breda argues. "Mustang's salary is more than enough to cover them."

"Well, we—"

Not a word in edgewise. Mustang sighs, and Hawkeye looks, as always, exasperated. Their eyes meet across the garden—she asks with the glint of her eyes, and he answers with the tug of an ear.

No one even notices that they've disappeared until the major-general throws open the doors and demands they all leave her estate or face communal decapitation. So they wander off together, arguing flower arrangements and venues and the precise shade of white silk would best compliment Riza's complexion.


End file.
